


The Majesty of Loveliness

by Pouncer



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M, Romance, offworld
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-25
Updated: 2007-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-04 03:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pouncer/pseuds/Pouncer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The path is tan gravel and crunches with every step. Ronon, for all his woodcraft, makes more noise than Elizabeth. Set some unspecified time between 2x03 Runner and 3x04 Sateda; no spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Majesty of Loveliness

They walk through a colonnade of trees, bare branches arrowing toward the grey sky. Fog shrouds the trees and makes their tops hard to see. The path is tan gravel and crunches with every step. Ronon, for all his woodcraft, makes more noise than Elizabeth. Her weight is slight for someone so imbued with spirit.

Sheppard and McKay are over at the ruins now, exploring. The residents of the Lexmi cloister first led them to this secluded obelisk and asked what the symbols meant. It was an obscure dialect of the Ancestors, and while Teyla drank tea and meditated with the Holy Ones, Ronon was sent to summon Elizabeth from Atlantis, as Doctors Fincalia and Moore are occupied with a critical translation mission to P45-1212.

Elizabeth's ankle turns slightly, but Ronon catches her elbow before she can do more than lurch a bit.

"Thank you," she says, and leans into his body for a second before straightening. He lets his fingers linger on her jacket, wishing he could touch bare skin and feel her shiver. Last night, he lipped that spot and drove her wild with the scratch of his beard.

The air smells of wet dirt and something else, something Ronon can't define. It relaxes him, easing the tension he always feels while out in the open.

Months with the Atlantians, and his muscles still tremble, ready to run at the first sight of Wraith.

The obelisk comes into view, a looming needle spiking up from the ground, each of its four sides dense with the writing of the Ancestors.

Elizabeth's eyes light up as she examines it. Ronon asked her once, tangled together after pleasure, why she loved languages so much.

Elizabeth sighed and shifted closer before she said, "Because it's how people communicate and overcome differences. Earth has so many languages, and each of them have unique ways to express concepts. I'm a negotiator and mediator by trade, and you can't do that without clarity between parties." She went on to talk about "Geneva" and "Soviets" and "nuclear reductions" and Ronon didn't understand any of it, but her voice grew intense and her eyes sparked with a different kind of passion.

Ronon thought on it later, that there wasn't much clarity in Pegasus. The Wraith saw to that.

The back of his neck prickles, the scars from the despised tracker itching. Ronon scans the sky, just in case. Nowhere is truly safe; the Wraith can strike at any time. The cloister has enjoyed peace for as long as their history recorded, but all that means is that they are a more likely target.

 

* * *

Two radio status checks pass without incident before Elizabeth surfaces from her translating haze. She stretches, sitting back on her heels, and Ronon hears her spine crackle. He'd bet her shoulder muscles are knotted tight.

"Hungry?" he asks.

Elizabeth's forehead creases for a second, and then she says, "Yes."

The Holy Ones gave Ronon _teadros_ fruit, sweet and crunchy, and he pulls one out of his pack to offer her. They alternate bites, and Elizabeth lets him lick the juice from her lips before she goes back to her work.

 

* * *

They return at high summer.

The Holy Ones are overjoyed to have the words of the Ancestors for their records, even if the meaning is no more apparent than it was before. The Ancestors could be frustratingly oblique, as McKay complained any time he tried to consult the Atlantis database.

_Tzili_ buzz lazily around the cloister gardens, and the Holy Ones insist on gifting Atlantis with a cask of last year's mead in thanks for their effort. The Holy Ones cherish knowledge, and their ignorance pained them.

Elizabeth wants to see the obelisk again, and Ronon escorts her. The trees are now clad in tri-lobed leaves that cast dappled shadows on the ground. Ronon is grateful for the protection; the sun is bright.

He hears something moving beyond the path – hooves. Ronon jerks around to see what approaches.

Antlers in silhouette appear first, atop the head of a woodland grazer, a kind Ronon does not know.

"Stag," Elizabeth murmurs. Her hand tightens on his arm.

The animal paces toward them, antlers wide as Ronon's spread arms and body powerful with muscle. Ronon wonders if he should be alarmed or wary of attack.

"Stay still," he tells Elizabeth.

They stand, waiting, as the stag crosses the path meters in front of them. His antlers look almost stubbed, and are covered in soft brown velvet that absorbs light. They curve inward like fingers.

"He's older," Elizabeth says quietly. "In his prime."

Ronon glances at her, surprised.

"My father hunted," she tells him.

The stag ignores their presence, pacing toward a tree trunk.

Ronon can feel sweat trickle down his back. The warm air doesn't want to enter his lungs. It's as if time hangs frozen, waiting.

The stag reaches the tree, sniffs. He rubs his antlers against it, splitting bark, and then continues onward.

Ronon can breathe again.

"It must be almost the start of mating season," Elizabeth says. "If this is like Earth, they scrape the velvet off and prepare to fight other bucks."

Since Sateda fell, Ronon hasn't been in any one place long enough to witness the turn of a year. And he'd been a city dweller, before.

Elizabeth stops to examine the damage to the tree. Shreds of bloody velvet hang from the edges of bark. She raises one finger, almost touching, face entranced, before backing away.

They walk to the clearing, the obelisk a monument to the Ancestors now-forsaken power. Elizabeth sighs, a contented sound as she drinks in the view.

Ronon can smell her beside him, a delicate perfume that evokes flowers and musk. He lets himself reach out and rest his hand on the nape of her neck.

She looks over, surprised, and he lifts a tendril of hair from her eyes.

"I like it here," Ronon tells her, and she gazes into his face and smiles.

  


-end-

**Author's Note:**

> A very late response to the Fifth Annual Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words Challenge. In my head, it's a sequel to Whisper Softness in Chambers, but you needn't have read that one for this to make sense. My thanks to Hetre Z for her encouragement way back when, and to Carolyn Claire and Beck for their beta efforts. Title from Byron's The Bride of Abydos (because how could I not?).
> 
> Disclaimer: The characters and situations of Stargate: Atlantis do not belong to me, sadly. This story was written for love, not profit.


End file.
